


Into the Unknown

by hotlegfryegg



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, how hard can I make grown men cry at each other: the novel, i cant just write fluffy shit apparently, look out kids im back on my shit, not quite as fluffy as lph but pretty close if im being honest, please note that i absolve myself of all liability for your dental visits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotlegfryegg/pseuds/hotlegfryegg
Summary: On their way to a dangerous mission in the wilds of Russia, Sova reflects on his relationship with Phoenix--and wonders where it might take him.
Relationships: Phoenix/Sova (VALORANT)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	1. Home is Where the Hearth Is

“Babe, I swear, I do _not_ know how you live in this weather,” Phoenix grouses, shivering as he shuts the door behind him. “Even the damn house is a walk-in meat locker! I’m not gonna have fingers after this week.”

Sova rolls his eyes but smiles, setting his duffel bag down in the corner and gently kicking the wall to knock the snow from his boots. “I know, it’s cold. You’ve let me know how cold it is eight times since we got off the plane this morning.”

Phoenix sulks a bit at that and mumbles an apology, shucking off the black guitar case that held their equipment. He turns it over to where Sova offers an outstretched hand, and only after Sova walks further into the cabin does he stomp shards of packed snow off his feet. As the russian hasn’t taken off his boots yet, Phoenix opts not to either, although he seems mortified when the other man sheds his gloves and parka.

The radianite rift on the border of Russia and Kazakhstan had been showing signs of instability again—being so far removed from civilization in the middle of a national park, it wasn’t entirely emergent, but the mere existence of it was enough to make both governments deeply uncomfortable. Where there were rifts, there were otherworldly mercenaries. Where there were renegade, alien mercenaries, there was mass destruction and stolen radianite.

National leaders turned to the Valorant Protocol, who turned to their resident expert: Sova, who had traversed the glacier trails to pass through the same spatial anomaly when it had opened before.

Saying the rift was difficult to access safely would be extremely polite. It was almost perfectly centered in the heart of the mountain peaks that were inaccessible by vehicle, and the radianite caused instability within local pressure systems which meant high winds made air travel nigh impossible. The two agents would have to travel over 100 kilometers on foot to reach it, through freezing conditions and unstable terrain.

Thinking technically, Phoenix’s radiance made him the logical decision to bring along against the last dregs of the Russian winter. And strategically, the two had good chemistry on the battlefield, as Phoenix woud flush enemies into Sova’s line of fire. Unfortunately, Sova had failed to consider Phoenix’s extremely suburban background.

“Darlin’, we got a thermostat in here?”

He was starting to regret his choice.

Summoning a little patience, the hunter smothers his irritation. “We don’t,” Sova calls from the kitchen. “There’s a fireplace, over by—“

“Oh thank you sweet god!” Phoenix cries, followed by the snap of fingers and the telltale crackle of flame. Sova’s regret lessens slightly.

It isn’t a large cabin by any means, and the fire’s warmth quickly begins to spread through the air. A single futon sits near the fireplace in the only room, with a small kitchen around the corner and a tiny bathroom just adjacent. There’s plumbing, though it’s a water recycling system—drinking water was separate, Sova recalls, making a note to tell Phoenix once they were settled. A few sets of antlers decorate the walls, but no pictures. It is a safehouse of sorts, after all, and Vanja never liked cameras.

He hadn’t been here in some time—the cabin belonged to a close friend of the family. She was gracious enough to settle an old IOU with Sova and lend her cabin for as long as they would need it, provided they tidy up after themselves (which was more than fair to ask). It hasn’t changed terribly since the last time he was here, he thinks, eyeing the line of ugly porcelain chickens Vanja kept on the kitchen windowsill. Her taste in decor was still awful, making blatantly obvious that her wife had yet to destroy the final survivors of her gaudy knick knack collection. Perhaps he could get away with breaking it, and call it a belated wedding present to Melati.

Grant plods from around the corner just as Alexei sets the kettle on the stove. “Need a pilot light? I might know a guy.”

Alexei shakes his head, pulling a pair of mismatched mugs from a cabinet and setting them on the counter. “I would not squander your gifts on something like this, when clearly you need that fire more than I do. How do you manage to be cold?” As he turns around, he realizes Grant has closed in to box him against the counter and his heart skips a beat.

“I don’t know,” the man says, low and playful, “but there’s an easy fix, if you’re willin' to help.”

Humming thoughtfully, the hunter lets his hands drift up the sleeves of Phoenix’s jacket. “You may be wearing too many layers, if that fix is what I think it is.” His eyes follow the details of the reflective patches across the shoulders, teasing by looking anywhere but into warm golden eyes. “Are you really going to make me undress you myself?”

“You unwrap all your own sweets, don’t you?” A smile plays on the edge of Alexei’s vision and he has to fight not to smile back, to keep his lips pursed in feigned disinterest. When Grant leans to try to intercept his attention he glances away, pretending to keep an eye on the kettle instead.

“Just because you’re a snack doesn’t mean you can charm me into doing all the heavy lifting.” Alexei says coyly. He hears Grant wheeze and, finally looking at the man’s face, sees he’s hunched over laughing. “... What?”

“D’you just call me a snack? Really?”

Alexei frowns, confused. “Is that not the right word?”

“No,” Grant snickers. “No, no, it is, that’s—you got it, that’s right.” He looks up into Alexei’s eyes and beams that million-watt smile and the hunter’s heart does a funny little flip in his chest. “It’s—I didn’t expect that from you? S’not your kind of flirt, s’all.”

“And here I thought it was supposed to be cute.”

“It is,” Grant affirms. “You are.”

“Are what?”

This seems to be an invitation Grant was anticipating as he slowly leans in, eyes half-lidded and glowing dimly. “Smart.”

Alexei smiles mischievously, leaning back slightly. “And?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Beautiful,” Grant murmurs, leaning in to pursue.

Heart beating a thunderous drum in his chest, Alexei’s eyes drift closed expectantly. “And?” He asks again, nose drifting against Grant’s own.

“COLD!” The spitfire yelps, jerking his face away and taking a full step back. “My god, how are you not frozen solid?! I’m gonna get freezer burn just kissin’ you, bloody hell!”

Alexei outright scowls. “I am breaking up with you.”

“And I’m calling Sage, that is _not normal_ —“

“You are a drama queen. You make fire but cannot handle my nose being cold—“

“Alexei, babe, you are glacial—“

“—and you are sleeping on the couch—“

“The only thing to sleep on in here is the couch!”

“I know!” Alexei throws his hands up in exasperation. “And you get to share with your glacial, horrible, cold boyfriend! Life is so hard, isn’t it?!”

“God, just come here—“

Grant plucks at where Alexei’s navy turtleneck is still tucked into his snow pants. Alexei, petulant, swats at his hand and turns away to face the counter instead. “I will not,” he huffs, setting his arms across his chest. “Go away.”

The brit snorts, making no move to leave. “Where’s my man gone? Who’s replaced him with this sassy cold boy?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m too busy being a-ahhhhhh—“ The protest vanishes as a pair of deliciously hot hands slide under Alexei’s shirt and up his back, leaving trails of warmth in their wake as they travel up to rub his shoulders. While he hadn’t felt particularly cold, Phoenix’s radiance is undeniably amazing against his bare skin. It’s the kind of heat that soaks deep into the muscle, and Alexei has to brace himself against the counter so as not to melt into a puddle on the floor. He lets out a low sigh, eyes drifting shut.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Take off your jacket. The cuffs are scratchy.”

Immediately, the heat vanishes as Grant busies himself with divesting of the offending clothing as fast as humanly possible. Sova can tell without looking by the cursing and the sound of a zipper getting caught, followed by the thump of the jacket hitting the floor.

The kettle has started to whistle--having almost completely forgotten about it, Alexei flinches at the sound and snaps the burner off. Just as he’s moving it off the stove, a wave of heat rolls across his back. Grant isn’t even touching him yet and the feeling is already heavenly.

“Hey.” Warm fingers slide across Alexei’s waist, and the hunter’s mouth goes dry.

“Hey,” he echoes quietly, and turns around to press himself flush against Grant, laying his head on his shoulder. Cascading rings of gold peek through the knit of Grant’s shirt, like candlelight on water, and Alexei watches through half-lidded eyes. His hands come up to rest over the other man’s arms as they settle around his back. They stand together in silence, though Grant sways just slightly--half a rocking motion, half a slow dance. It settles the russian's heart into a rare sort of ease, and the sense of urgency propping him up starts to ebb. He curls his fingers into the waffle-knit of Grant's thermal, and breathes out a deep sigh of relief.

Sova had the awful habit of forgetting to be tired, sometimes. They had been travelling for over 24 hours, and while they had gotten some rest on the flights from Milan to Semey (and Phoenix had napped on and off on the drive to Zyryanovsk), it was in the hunter’s nature to shove any feelings of exhaustion or discomfort to the wayside when there was a job to be done. He would work tirelessly, feel almost nothing, until he had his prey--only then could he be allowed to rest.

As much as it could be a boon, it was a double edged sword. During a mission that took three of the agents through the heart of Denali, Sova had stayed awake for several days tracking an Omen that had come through a rift. They had found their quarry thanks to that hypervigilance, but Sova ended up collapsing almost the instant they returned to civilization. He woke up a full day later in a hospital in Fairbanks, where a livid Brimstone tore into him for not being more careful. He remembers walking out of the medical facility to be greeted by Phoenix… who was not a part of that mission. Grant had traveled halfway around the world to bring Alexei home. And the first thing he did--rather than berate Sova, or so much as say hello--was pull the other man into a full-blown hug warmed by radiance, and just hold him there.

That instant, where they had just stood in the parking lot together, changed everything. It had hit Alexei like a ton of bricks: Grant was actually, truly, genuinely in love with him.

“Babe,” a voice calls back to the present. “‘Lexei.”

“Mm.”

“Were you making tea?”

Rather than respond, Alexei buries his face in Grant’s shoulder. A hot hand slides up to the russian’s neck, rubbing across the fine blonde hair there. It takes a superior amount of willpower for Alexei not to fall asleep right then.

The spitfire clicks his tongue when he doesn’t get an answer, but doesn’t move to let go yet. He does, however, stop his radiance, and the glow of his markings flicker and die like a snuffed candle. “You know somethin’? I hate this mission. Right pisses me off.”

This gets Sova’s attention, and he reluctantly lifts his head off of Phoenix’s shoulder. “Why?” he asks.

“Because,” Phoenix whispers conspiratorially, “I finally get you to myself for an entire week and I don’t get to spend it making sure you can’t walk straight.”

Alexei buries his head back in Grant’s shoulder to smother his laughter (and the way his entire face flushes).

“I’m serious! Really, the only reason I don’ have you pinned on that couch right now is ‘cause we walkin’ literally fifty miles through fuckall tomorrow. I’m proper blue-balled.”

“Let’s file a complaint to the captain,” Sova snorts, pulling back to look Phoenix in the face. “Not enough time listed in mission itinerary allocated to sex with my boyfriend.”

Phoenix shrugs, laughing along. “I mean, you’re not wrong? I could request additional leave, if you want to drag your feet a little on the way back to HQ.”

Sova cocks an eyebrow. “Drag my feet because I’m not walking straight?”

“Exactly,” winks Phoenix.

Alexei scoffs. “It's tempting,” he says.

“Think of it this way. The less time we spend at base, the fewer noise complaints Viper has to file. We’d be doin’ Cap a service, savin’ paper--that’s straight altruism, it is. Who loses?”

“Me. Chiropractor appointments are expensive.”

Grant struggles not to laugh. “Good point, I’ll give you that one. We could split the cost?”

Alexei looks away thoughtfully, the tips of his ears still pink. “I’ll think about it.” He presses a quick kiss to the corner of Grant’s mouth, but pulls away when the brit tries to follow his lips. “There is still work to be done. Help me finish, and we can rest before tomorrow.”

Grant visibly deflates, but doesn’t protest when Sova slides out of his hands and walks back into the kitchen. That said, Sova has to dig deep into his resolve not to go running back as the warmth of Grant’s embrace fades away—not that the room is cold, the fireplace is still going and even then he’s still wearing half his gear—it occurs to him that the heat isn’t what makes him want to go back for more.

_Make the tea, write the report, grab the quilts, go to sleep. This is a mission. Eyes up._ Like a mantra, he silently berates himself while he goes through the motions of pouring the boiling water into the mugs. Luckily, he and Vanja had similar tastes in tea: more energy than a beehive full of espresso and stronger than a bear on steroids, as she liked to joke. She was a self-titled “poacher poacher”, a tracker and sniper like Sova—he had traveled with her often as a teen, traversing the wilds and sharing tricks of the trade as well as her drinks.

But of course, while Vanja was a good friend, she was also an incurable prankster. She knew Alexei was coming, and worse, she knew who Alexei was _bringing_. So of course, in place of her usual stash of earl grey is a seemingly innocuous red tin. Opening it hesitantly, Sova shakes the loose leaves and quickly smells it to make sure it hasn’t expired or been tampered with.

Instead, he gets a noseful of something decidedly _floral_.

There was a note sitting in the cabinet underneath the tin. Annoyed, Sova snatches it and, upon flipping it open, swears under his breath:

> _Сова,_
> 
> _Give him a little taste of Russia and make me many fat grandchildren ;)_
> 
> _ULTIMATE WINGMAN VANJA_

“Babe? Why are you opening the window?! I finally got this place warm!”

The window shuts once again, much easier now that the sill is free of porcelain chickens. “Sorry, my love,” Sova calls blithely, “I just needed a little air.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEE HOO IM GAY AS EVER  
> This is gonna be a two-parter just because I live for the sugar and love writing dialogue. Like. I LOVE writing dialogue. Too much. Someone please stop me.  
> Is this a part of the same universe as Love Prize Honor? Maybe! I have no idea! But I will divulge that LPH and ITU are NOT a part of the Mayday timeline I have in mind, so take that for what you will.
> 
> yeah yeah Mayday chapter 3 but HEY LOOK I GOT A TWITTER! Come tell me how bad my writing is and feel free to ask me anything.
> 
> https://twitter.com/hotlegfryegg


	2. Read Between the Lines

“You regret coming out here, don’t you?”

The question catches Sova quite off guard, causing him to fumble with the tripod he’d been setting up. Just barely he manages to catch the infrared camera before it hits the rocky ground with only a split second of relief before whirling around to glower at Phoenix, who watches bemused, sitting on a large rock some two meters away. The other man, having shed his jacket and gloves for a little fresh air, shifts the laptop across his legs and taps idly on the keys as the computer continues to boot up.

“I—where does this come from?” Sova sputters, lowering into a kneel by where he still holds the equipment.

Phoenix tilts his head, looking away from Sova back to the computer screen as the system finally comes online. “Seeing as I’m not a complete idiot, and I may or may not make a habit of… birdwatching... you’re doing that thing you do, where when something reeeeally bugs you but you don’t wanna complain to nobody, you get real quiet and broody. ‘S kinda sexy, actually,” he shrugs, lips pursed to smother the beginnings of a shit-eating grin.

Sova squints, not looking away from his comrade as he follows through the motion of jamming the tripod into the gravel with a loud crunch. “You admit you stare at me.”

That million-watt smile sneaks free across his lips. “Be less hot and I’ll stop staring, aye?”

“You are the hot one, _Phoenix_.”

“And you’re dodging my question, _Sova,_ ” he says, turning the “o” into a long, unnecessary drawl. Sova hopes he rolls his eyes hard enough to accurately convey his exasperation.

“Sooo, you do realize the channel’s open, right?”

The sudden interjection makes both men jump, with Phoenix nearly throwing the laptop in the process. Sova feels a flush creep up his cheeks that, for the first time in two days, isn’t from the cold, and finally turns his attention back to his job with an inkling of shame. 

Phoenix blessedly does the same (for once), using both hands to scratch the back of his head as he nudges the laptop into a better position with his knees. “Sorry, KJ, didn’t realize the connection was up, honest! Lookin’ good over there. What time ’s it in Prague?”

Anyone listening for it can practically hear the look of disappointment their coworker is giving Phoenix, and Sova does faintly make out the sound of her adjusting her glasses to better rest across her button nose. “As Cypher might complain at this hour, ‘despicably early’. Although not having you two making a racket all night certainly helps the sleep schedule around here,” Killjoy remarks jokingly, unknowing that Sova’s blush has crept to his ears. “Viper says it’s the best she’s had since you were single.”

“Ouch, girl, that hurts! I’m gutted, really!” The spitfire laughs brightly, then falters, glancing sideways at Sova. “Are we—we ain’t actually _that_ loud, right? KJ?”

Silence comes over the line where a noncommittal shrug might be. “I mean, I haven’t tested the soundproofing yet, but it’s installed.” The tone of mild entertainment in her voice is enough for anyone who knows Killjoy well to understand that she’s _not_ kidding. The burning feeling in his ears turns up a notch. “Sova, are those temperature readings accurate? Or did you forget to calibrate those thermometers?”

“If it is around seven degrees, they tell the truth,” he replies quickly, glad for the change in topic. He peels off his gloves and crosses to toss them on top of Phoenix’s jacket before settling his weight across his knees, leaning against the rock to lean over the hotshot’s shoulder. “I calibrated them twice before we left and once upon arrival. They are accurate.” Adjusting momentarily on the cold stone, Sova finally gets a good look at the screen.

A young woman sits enshrouded in the darkness of an unlit room—her lab in Kingdom’s European headquarters, if Sova had to guess, indicated by the smattering of old band posters and half-assembled bots he could make out by the passive light of her monitor. She was hunched over, probably cross-legged on a crate, nestled against the lip of her desk (which didn’t look remotely comfortable, but was certainly on-par for Killjoy). Her puffy yellow jacket was missing in favor of an oversized t-shirt, and her dark hair, free of its usual woolly green confines, was piled in a haphazard bun and skewered in place by—of all things—an _allen wrench_.

Sova watches as Killjoy wrinkles her nose, glasses sliding down her face as she leers over the rims to reread the data scrolling across her screen, the charts a large white rectangle cast across her thick lenses. “Seven deg—wait, wait, wait, I’m pulling numbers from the sensors in both your jackets. While you were in the dark—that is, while your trackers got lost in the electromagnetic interference caused by atmospheric distortion from the tempo-spatial anomaly—“

“Pressing one for english, tech support.”

“Ah, sorry—“ the girl blinks rapidly for a moment, then restarts with a sniff. “I’ve got readings that you hit almost _negative thirty_ degrees celsius eight hours ago, just before we lost you. How long have you been at the target?”

Phoenix leans back, tilting his head to look at the hunter. “‘bout three hours, wot? Took us a minute to settle, doin’ that calibration bit for Sova’s eye after it came back on.”

When Sova nods in agreement, Killjoy practically bounces in her makeshift seat. “Mein gott, how far away would that put you, then? Twenty, maybe twenty-five kilometers?”

The russian shakes his head. “Less. We walked in heavy winds and uneven ground, with no visibility. Even here, I can see the edge of the storm. We are approximately ten kilometers away now.”

“Oh, äußerst faszinierend—that kind of thermal differential shouldn’t even be possible without artificial interference! Was it like this the last time you were here?”

Sova glances quickly at Phoenix—whose expression is a bold attempt at not appearing confused—before looking back at the engineer. “Yes. It wasn’t as… much of a difference. That field wasn’t enough to deactivate electronics, only weaken signals. The winds were less, and it wasn’t as warm in the center.” For what must have been the umpteenth time, the hunter warily looks around the clearing they’ve set themselves up in—and into the Looking Glass.

To someone who perhaps had been in a coma for the last fifteen years, the Looking Glass rift would have been a marvelous thing. Hovering just above the ground, perhaps only a meter away from the rocks below, it was a perfect sapphire circle about half a kilometer in diameter that swirled with pure energy that sparked off in wild electric arcs. The rift itself made little sound—only a deep, thrumming, bassy hum, not unlike the radianite barriers utilized by the Protocol to shield both agents and certain passageways. Blue light filtered from it and scattered across the nearby glaciers, a shining beacon even at midday to anyone who could pass through the blistering cold winds it wrapped itself in. It would be beautiful, were it not for what surrounded it:

Defunct machinery—stabilizers, Sova thinks, unsure—emerge like teeth from the ground, half-buried in the rocky ground and curling up and around the Looking Glass as if the rift lay in the center of a monstrous maw. Perhaps there was a time when they were new, chromed and gleaming fangs to hungrily swallow whatever secrets Kingdom could pilfer; now their orange logos could barely be determined amidst the shrapnel. Black pipelines of wires snaked between each unit, sliced and torn and scattered across as if they had been ripped to pieces by something of extreme strength.

No animal could have destroyed the stabilizers with such force, nor rendered the thick cables of wire into little more than scrap. There’s only one thing that could possibly have committed such destruction.

_They should not have come_ , and he does his best not to let his regret show on his face. Phoenix is right. He’s right, and Alexei is right and wrong and the Looking Glass stares into the seat of his soul just like it did the first time.

Alexei, held captive by his pride, glowers back with just as much hatred.

“... few hours, and then you’re out. For all we can tell, the data this rift is giving off follows the trend of rifts that open but don’t exhume—that is, I don’t think anything or _anyone_ is coming through.” A thick german accent filters back above that damned hum and Sova snaps to attention, manually forcing himself to unclench his teeth. In a moment of clarity he sets a hand on Grant’s shoulder—something, anything to ground himself, and hopefully look innocuous to the other two agents.

On the laptop screen, Killjoy adjusts her glasses again (of course she’s got that look in her eye that says she’s observed something interesting and is fighting herself not to bring it up) and holds up crossed fingers to the camera with a tired smile. “At least, it _should_ be quiet for now. You know what we discussed, based on the previous report y—ah, the _Protocol_ , filed. Yes?”

“Right!” says Phoenix in a voice that drips with sarcasm. He sets his hand across his jaw, leaning into the camera for effect. “That lovely report that I’m evidently not allowed to read more than three fuckin’ words of. Might as well be an ad for bloody sharpies with the amount of redacted shit.”

The engineer tuts on the other end of the line, pursing her lips. “I didn’t get to pick who read that, sorry! That one’s above my paygrade.”

The spitfire raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “But you’ve read it, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“... And?”

Killjoy leans back, the new angle lighting up the lenses of her glasses like one of the animes she ropes the team into watching, and covers the lower half of her face with steepled fingers. “Utterly lovecraftian,” she giggles rapturously.

“Very helpful, Annie, thanks. Catch you at HQ.”

The joy vanishes from her face instantly. “It’s _Anika_ , dummkopf,” she snaps. “And don’t call me tech support again!” The line terminates with a blip.

Phoenix closes the laptop with a single finger, dragging his free hand across his face and letting out an annoyed groan. “I love getting sent out to play cleanup for shit we ain’ even allowed to— _Jesus_ , Lex, throw me a fuckin’ bone, you never said you’d been here already!”

Sova tightens his grip on Phoenix’s shoulder, leaning down to speak into the other man’s ear. “That is because I had prayed to _never come back_ . And now I pray,” he says, catching the spitfire’s jaw in his free hand and staring him in the eye, “that you never find out _why_. There is nothing here worth knowing.”

Hurt flashes across Phoenix’s face before quickly turning to anger. “Then why the _fuck_ ,” he seethes, pushing past Sova’s grip and forcing him back as he rises to his feet, “did you bring me? You had your pick of the whole goddamn crew, best fucking guns money can buy—and _apparently_ people who get more than six words of fucking context—and you chose me. And you’re keeping me in the bloody fucking dark, for what? Because you think it’s _scary_ ?! After what I—what _we’ve_ been through! Are you fucking kidding me!”

Every word gets louder until Sova is scowling against the yelling in his face. Something deep inside his chest withers, but pinpricks of heat return to his head. “I would not and _did not_ choose you heedlessly. This isn’t a holiday, Grant, there’s—“

“Explain it. Explain it to me, because I’m having a little fuckin’ trouble understanding you right now.”

“I—“

“Or can you!” Phoenix shouts, throwing his hands up and pacing away. “God, do you even _want_ me to know? Or is that off-limits, too?” A humorless laugh bubbles out of the hotshot that makes Sova feel like he’s swallowed hot coal.

He fights the urge to turn and spit. “You are acting like a child—“

“Wait, wait, lemme guess,” the man turns on a dime to face him, smiling venomously. “You picked me because I’m _warm_.”

Sova must make a face, because Phoenix scoffs at him, wicked grin unabated.

“Don’t give me that look, I ain’t stupid. I get it! I’m the hotboy—“

“—Grant—“

“—the only one on the fucking Protocol that can walk through _negative fucking thirty_ like it’s _nothing—_ “

“I picked you because I didn’t want anyone else to know!” He snaps, voice hoarse.

Phoenix’s mouth snaps shut.

Like some twisted stand-off, they stare at each other in silence. A gust of wind whistles past Alexei’s ears, blowing his hair across his face as he swallows once, twice, tries to find the words in english. His eyes sting.

Grant dares to speak first. “Lex,” he calls, resolve breaking.

“Yes, Killjoy knows what happened here. She knows what happened here _on paper_ . Nobody, _nobody_ knows what this place…” A cynical smile breaks across his face and he gestures to the destruction around them. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the Protocol that this is what keeps me awake when I want to sleep? Beg them to send someone else, someone who doesn’t know what they’re risking coming here?”

Something dark passes over Grant’s countenance, but he says nothing, pressing his lips into a firm line. 

The scrutiny on his boyfriend’s face burns Alexei, it looks too much like disbelief. “And yes, your gifts were a practical choice. In the wild, fire is life, and yes, I did need some who could walk through the cold without dying. You are not wrong.” There’s a knot rising into his throat that he chokes to shout over, and he _hates it_ . “But I also needed someone I could trust, who would see me scared and know it would not be over _nothing_ , and who would trust _me_ enough not to ask when I cannot answer.” 

Face on fire, he drags a hand over his cheeks, turning his gaze away. “I guess that was not you.”

He doesn’t need to see Grant’s face to know the man’s now kicking himself. “Oh, fuck—Lex—“

“I am going to do my job and get this nightmare over with,” Sova announces louder than necessary, reaching down to snag the last piece of equipment. “Do what you want. We leave again at sunrise.”

Another gust passes through the clearing before he realizes his face is wet, cooling his skin where the wind blows across the trails of spent tears. Of all the shit he finally cries over, did it have to be this? He feels like a little kid, weeping over something inane, unnecessary. Shame draws his shoulders taught as he rubs at his face again, as if he could just will away the insecurity of being at his breaking point. This is work, and here he is getting emotional not half a kilometer away from the object of his constant torment.

_Set up the sensors, pitch the tent, get some sleep, pack up and go. This is a mission, eyes up and level head until you are home._ Admonishing himself just makes it all ache worse.

Grant would crack a joke to lighten the mood. _HQ has the good tissues anyway._

The thought is bittersweet, but it lessens the blow of his own self loathing.

Busying himself with setting up the electromagnetic sensor is a good distraction, being the most complex of the machinery Killjoy had sent them with given the sensitivity of the damned thing. A good part of an hour passes between him rereading her instructions and fiddling with the inane number of inputs for such a small piece of machinery, and he finishes with an exhausted flourish. Hopefully Phoenix was useful enough to set up the tent.

Like Orpheus turning back to face the underworld, Sova looks to the clearing behind him, and Phoenix is nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, this still exists. Whoops.
> 
> Sorry for taking so long, but as with Mayday, I won't put out work that I don't think is good. Trust me when I say that this chapter has been rewritten, start to finish, no less than five times! Only the best for all six of us Firebird shippers, no?
> 
> Anyway, for the first time EVER, I've received fanart for this work!! Huge thanks to the lovely @hakkekkyuus on twitter for drawing [the argument in chapter 1](https://twitter.com/hakkekkyuus/status/1308058301121224704?s=20) and banishing Phoenix to the couch, I LOVED this so much!! It totally blew my mind that ANYONE would like my stuff enough to draw it, and you absolutely knocked it out of the park. I look at this DAILY. Thank you!!
> 
> (If you would like me to moon over any other fanart or fanworks inspired by mine, please please PLEASE send them to me via Twitter @hotlegfryegg or Discord at hotlegfryegg#7481. You guys are half the reason I do what I do!)


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